


The Pull of Desire

by Chibiness87



Category: A Discovery of Witches (TV)
Genre: F/M, I'm 3 episodes in and writing fic already..., Vampires, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 03:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16189481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibiness87/pseuds/Chibiness87
Summary: What choice does he have?





	The Pull of Desire

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I… did a thing. I haven’t read the books yet – they’re next in line. So this is based purely on the first 3 episodes of the TV adaptation… along with my own favourite vampire trope. *shrugs*

**The Pull of Desire** , by **chibiness87**  
**Rating** : T  
**Season/Spoilers** : TV show – up to 1.03.  
**Disclaimer** : not mine.

**Summary** : What choice does he have?

* * *

 

Miriam’s words of warning are still echoing around his head as he makes his way up the stairs, bottle of wine in his grasp. He knows what he is doing is dangerous, not because of what he could do, but because of what the others might do, but still, he cannot stay away, drawn to her as he is.

It is more than a craving, more than a hunger.

He hasn’t felt this way about another being, Creature or otherwise, for decades. Centuries. The call of her scent, the feel of her blood pulsing beneath his lips when he laid a delicate kiss to the fragile skin of her wrist… it would be so easy. Too easy. Hamish had warned him, _everyone_ had warned him, to keep away until he could control himself around her. But when she seeks him out, invites him to dinner, he cannot turn her away, as much as he logically knows he should. Relationships, even if nothing more than friendships, between mortals and immortals never last; they simply _can’t_.

He is over 1500 years old; she has barely passed 30.

But oh, he _wants_.

Making his way up the stairs, a new, different feeling comes over him, one that speaks of protection. He can hear her voice, trimmed with fear, although it would take someone with his sense of hearing to be able to detect the slightest wavier. Staying resilient, despite her desire to flee; and _oh, but what a strong mortal he has chosen._

Except, her visitor is not just another warm-blood. No. It is another witch, standing in her rooms, intimidating her, making her adrenaline flow. Every possessive, protective instinct he has comes out, and he is by her side before either of them can blink. _Good_ , he thinks. Let this mortal witch see he is not welcome here. Let him tremble, let him quake. No harm shall come to Diana, even if he has to break every code of the congregation to make it so.

Beside him, he can hear Diana’s heartbeat settle, and, not for the first time, he has to wonder at the little witch at his side. Of her acceptance, her trust, so freely given, when even someone she called friend referred to him as a _that._ His mind takes him back to the night by the river, holding her top in his hand, breathing in the scent of her for the first time. He has warned her, then, warned her to keep going, to not look back. But she had ignored him, and it had taken everything in him not to reach out and touch her, willing her with his eyes alone to _keep moving_.

He doesn’t fight his instinct this time, placing his hand on the small of her back, even as he stares down Knox. The unmistakable promise of _I’m here, it’s okay_ conveyed by touch alone. And oh, isn't it interesting to see the effect. Diana relaxes, the sharp tones of her anger and fear dulling down, only to be replaced by the scent of fear and distrust from across the room. Sharp and bitter in the air, on his tongue. The unspoken _How dare you_ answered by his own tilt of the eyebrow.

_Just give me a reason_ , he wants to say, _to tear your throat out where you stand, and I will gladly comply._

Something must tip the fool off, because Knox leaves without another word, and for the first time since he set foot in the room does Diana finally take a breath, does she finally relax. No longer plagued by the sound of her heartbeat racing in his mind, by the taste of her adrenaline in the air, Matthew lets his own body relax. It is just her and him here now; they are safe.

Dinner is a success, and he feels calm and relaxed, the taste of the food and the wine making his senses hum. And then she goes and pulls the rug out from under him by asking him how she would taste, and gods, she must know what that question does to him, she _must._ The line he is walking, between protector and stalker, hunter and saviour grows so thin with that simple question, it is held together by a gossamer thread, by sheer will alone.

Hand at her throat, he shows her how close she is to death at his hand, how hard he is working to keep the inner demon in him at bay. A wolf howling for blood, a need in his veins. His voice a rasp as he explains her scent to him, his nose tracing over the shape of her head, her ear. He can feel her pulse in her throat, so close to his mouth now; can feel her desire warring with her innate fear, making her heart race. His own heart, silent for so many years, gives a painful thump in his chest at her so close to him. And then it damn near stops again when she turns in his arms, hands tracing up over his chest, and presses her lips to his.

It is all he can do to stay still, stay pliant, even if everything in his wants to kiss her back.

Kiss her, and so, so much more.

This is what he means when he says he is craving her; not to kill or to Turn, but to own. To possess. The way of the Mark fell out of fashion a millennia ago, but for her, oh, he would Mark her without hesitation. A warning to all others, Creature and human alike: this one is taken. This one is claimed. He’d like to see Miriam or that stupid punk Marcus dare to touch her smell her bleed her when she bears his scent on her skin, and his Mark on her wrist. He’d like to see that idiot Knox try to threaten her, threaten them, with the Mark of a Vampire binding her soul to his.

That thought spurs him into action, and he steps away, tone forcefully neutral as he thanks her, _thanks her_ for dinner, leaving her in a mass of confusion and hurt he can see spiralling off her in waves.

No more; he cannot be close to her like this again.

But life, it seems, has other plans, and it isn't even 24 hours later when he is once again holding her, once again giving her the support her own kind cannot. The Witching Wind, so long since it had last been conjured it had been considered a myth by many, emanating from her soul in defiance to those who would see those whom she cares about harmed.

There may well be powerful magic for 782 at play here, but it doesn’t take a blind man to see Diana is caught in the web; she is not the spider. At this point, he doesn’t even think she is a fly. She is something more, something even Ashmole has felt. Summoning a book is not a magic trick, not a parlour game. She is not a spectacle for all Creatures to gape and gawp at; he thought the other witches at Oxford would know that by now.

But it is them, led by Knox, who corner, them who cage. Diana’s power is so strong it takes all the added strength he told her about the previous evening to fight through enough to reach her. But reach her, he does. Hold her, he does. Calms her and soothes her, and as she lies trembling in his arms on the floor of the library, he knows he is done for.

Strangely, that thought doesn’t worry him half as much as he _knows_ it should.

* * *

End

Thoughts?

 


End file.
